The Importance of Studying the Gemara (Column 745)

The Importance of Studying the Gemara (Column 745)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

Following my repeated remarks, I have been asked several times to explain why I regard the Talmud as such an exemplary and unique text, and what makes the study of it so important—both on the Torah plane and in divine service, and also in the general sphere. I therefore decided to devote a separate column to the matter. Almost all of the points have already been explained by me in many places, so here I will present only the broad picture and refer to the places where I elaborated. My sense is that there is value in seeing the full picture beyond the details.

The Question

A few days ago I received the following question on WhatsApp:

By the way, if I may, on several occasions—both in posts and in answers on the site—you expanded on the importance of studying the Gemara as an intrinsic value, not as a means but as an end. And these points are well known. However, at the same time, from time to time you mentioned that the Talmud is an exemplary book, and in the trilogy you especially emphasized its unique redaction, which enables debate within a framework, and in this way preserved the culture and the people, and so on.

From this, I dare to suggest: perhaps it would be worthwhile to devote an entire column to the importance of studying the Talmud not necessarily from its religious value, but precisely from its essence as a unique text—its style, its structure, the way it develops thought—and to present through it the importance of argument; these matters are very relevant. In short, to formulate the above “refinement” articulated by Steinsaltz.

At the end of his words he mentions things written by Yoel Spitz, in his second book about his meetings with Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, Fire Cannot Rest. I will bring them below. But first I must sharpen the difficulty he raises, which actually hints at two kinds of difficulties.

The first difficulty: the book’s structure and character

The Talmud is constructed in an associative manner that appears, on its face, primitive and unsystematic. The arguments there do not look logically tight; it is filled with unresolved disputes. The transitions from topic to topic and the analogies made there look very freewheeling and unconvincing. The order of matters is jumbled and not divided by topic. Even the ordering that Rabbi (Judah the Prince) gave the tractates of the Mishnah is only a framework within which varied and sundry contents accumulate that do not always relate to the compartment ostensibly under discussion. Tractate Megillah contains many laws and statements not connected to the Megillah, and in the Gemara the discussions develop in highly varied directions, some of which are not related at all to Purim and the Megillah. So it is with the other tractates as well. It is no wonder that when a person finishes learning a sugya, he usually feels he is not holding the material. It is hard for him to say he “knows” the material discussed in the sugya. He knows how to resolve this or that difficulty; he recognizes several approaches of commentators at various points; but he lacks a coherent structure that contains all the relevant material in the sugya.

The second difficulty: the book’s content

Many struggle with the question of why it is customary to give the study of the Talmud such a central place in divine service. Seemingly these are trifles—details of halakhah and its fine points—compared to philosophy and reflection on the foundations of faith, to the study of Scripture as the direct word of God, to the secrets of Kabbalah, and the like. One can also add that the vast majority of these halakhic details are a human creation, produced over the generations and not given to us at Sinai. Why is it so important to engage with things created by human beings, more than with the word of God? Already in the Talmud we find (Bava Batra 134a; Sukkah 28a):

Our Rabbis taught: Hillel the Elder had eighty students: thirty of them were worthy that the Divine Presence should rest upon them as upon Moses our teacher; thirty of them were worthy that the sun should stand still for them as for Joshua son of Nun; twenty were average. The greatest of them all was Jonathan ben Uzziel; the least of them all was Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai. They said about Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai that he neglected not Scripture and Mishnah, Talmud, laws and legends, fine points of Torah and fine points of the Sages, the lighter and the weightier, verbal analogies, astronomy and geometry, parables of launderers and parables of foxes, the conversation of demons, the conversation of palm trees, and the conversation of ministering angels; and the great matter and the small matter—the great matter being the Work of the Chariot, and the small matter being the discussions of Abaye and Rava—to fulfill what is said: “That I may cause those that love Me to inherit substance, and I will fill their treasuries.” And if such was said of the least of them, how much more of the greatest of them! They said about Jonathan ben Uzziel that when he sat and engaged in Torah, any bird that flew above him would be burned.

That is, the discussions of Abaye and Rava are a “small matter” compared to all those lofty secrets that bring down the Divine Presence. It is not plausible that when one is immersed in miggo to extract, or nat bar nat of one day, a bird flying overhead would be scorched. That sounds like something that can happen when dealing with foundational ideas and secrets, not with the parameters of the labor of me’amer or the laws of tearing toilet paper on Shabbat.

So too the Rambam writes in Hilchot Yesodei HaTorah 4:13:

The subjects of these four chapters, within these five commandments, are what the early Sages called “the orchard (pardes),” as they said: “Four entered the orchard.” And although they were great among Israel and great sages, not all of them had the strength to know and grasp all these matters in their truth. And I say that one should not stroll in the orchard except one whose belly is filled with bread and meat; and “bread and meat” means to know the prohibited and the permitted and the like among the other commandments. And although these matters the Sages called a “small matter,” for they said: “A great matter—the Work of the Chariot; a small matter—the discussions of Abaye and Rava,” nevertheless they are worthy to be given precedence, for they settle a person’s mind first. Moreover, they are the great good that the Holy One, blessed be He, bestowed for the settlement of this world, in order to inherit the life of the world to come. And it is possible for everyone to know them—small and great, male and female, one with a wide heart and one with a narrow heart.

That is, the discussions of Abaye and Rava are a small matter that should be preceded to the deeper, truer study, since they settle our minds before we enter the inner sanctum. This is apparently the reason that they also earn a fine reward in the World to Come (people need motivation to engage in things so “unnecessary,” lowly, and boring).

Of course, against these sources and intuitions stands reality. In practice, in yeshivot it is customary to devote the bulk of time to analytic halakhic study. This is not a new invention; so it was in the past as well. The Rambam himself devoted a significant portion of his life to halakhic questions and halakhic compositions. Most of the Rishonim dealt primarily with these questions. Most of the Talmud is devoted to halakhic analysis, and philosophical points—inasmuch as they appear—are hinted, marginal, said in passing, and not precisely or fully developed.

The meaning and character of the Talmud

I have often stood on the casuistic conception underlying the character of the Talmud and on its importance (see, for example, in columns 482, 550, 662, and more). My claim there was that reality has an anarchic character—unsystematic and not subject to sweeping rules and tightly logical thinking. The attempt to describe it in terms of coherent logical theories is the product of our thinking. Therefore, the rules we find always have exceptions. For this reason, a description of reality (perhaps also physical, but primarily human and legal) by a casuistic path of cases and analogies (rather than rules and deductions) captures it more essentially. Presenting the various sides of a dispute, attempting to clarify it in light of conflicting and supporting sources, questions and answers, limiting interpretations, readings and explanations—and all this without deciding in the bottom line for one side—leaves us with a deeper, more comprehensive and complete grasp of the topic, since we have not negated any of the sides. The assumption is that in each side there is logic that cannot be entirely dismissed, and the full description of reality is a combination of all these sides (see, for example, in column 248 about “elu ve-elu,” and in my article here on halakhic pluralism).

The form of a Talmudic sugya enables us to be partners in the discussion taking place within it. We are not learning finished material; we are partners in the process of creating it. The Talmud continues to be created to this day, with the written Talmud serving as the base upon which the next stories are constructed by each of us. Those experienced in analytic Talmud study know that there are almost no two learners who will formulate the same distinction in exactly the same way. Therefore, sitting around a round table and jointly clarifying the sugya is the right way to understand it fully and reach its roots.

Immersing oneself inside a topic—instead of learning it summarized and orderly frontally—allows for a kind of understanding that cannot exist in the conventional frontal mode. It is no wonder that the Sages said that serving the wise is greater than learning from them. There is something that passes only through rubbing shoulders with the sages and their ideas, and not through a systematic, orderly study of the subject. It passes through analyzing cases and entering into them, not through general positivistic formulations. The learner’s task is to try to arrange the sugya for himself and formulate rules after he has entered it casuistically. That is a summary that concludes the entry into the sugya, but it certainly does not exhaust all that we derived there (see, for example, in columns 662 and 707).

When we speak about the transmission of tradition (see in columns 622 – 626 on the dynamism of tradition), there is no escaping transmitting it in this way. Learning physics in a classroom is not the transmission of tradition. Until you have done a kind of apprenticeship—pouring water on the hands of a seasoned researcher—you do not truly understand how this enterprise works. The study of the Talmud is more an apprenticeship than study in the conventional sense.

In the Talmud there is an exemplary combination of logic and intuition, more than in any other text I know. The proportion of logic rises as the generations pass. The Rishonim produce initial abstractions; the Acharonim continue this further and further. Each generation develops what was done until it; and the keen-eyed see that what happens in this generation was already latent in some potential form in all the earlier material (see, for example, in column 625). We are constantly engaged in exposing similar lines across entirely different contexts, in general abstractions and immediately returning to specific examples, in understanding different aspects of each topic and its relations to similar and distant topics (similarity and distinction, analysis and synthesis).

The meaning of the study

As noted, we are not learning Talmud so much as partnering in its creation. Beyond that, the Talmud does not teach us “material” so much as it grants and instills within us a mode of relating. That is what passes from generation to generation—not some defined body of content. And in the course of transmission it naturally undergoes incubation, refinement, and ramification; it moves from language to language, from one conceptual system to another; and they all relate to the same ideas and the same concepts, and all of them manage to speak with one another, to argue, to disagree, to deliberate, and even to decide. And when there is no decision—then to make decisions in a state where there is no decision, and to learn to live with reality that contains different opinions even on acute matters. This mode of relating should be applied also to the world around us, to more general contexts outside halakhah and Torah. The Talmudic person—the homo talmudicus—relates to the surrounding reality with Talmudic tools of analysis and decision. He breaks reality into shades, facets, and faces; he makes abstract generalizations; he moves to philosophical categories; and finally he returns to the ground of reality and makes decisions in a complex, non-deductive manner. I have often noted that rules are recommendations only: they come to guide us, not to dictate to us.

It is no wonder that there are not a few Torah scholars who do not understand this (see, for example, in column 733, and many more). They think they are studying halakhah and do not understand that they are partners in its creation. They also do not understand that the way to relate to the surrounding reality is not a simple application of what we have learned, nor a simple application of the methods we have accumulated. It is a very delicate combination: first, understanding the external reality from within itself; then, applying the tools we have acquired. There are those who think reality is written in Rashi script. This is a mistaken application of a correct conception of Torah. Indeed, the Torah is meant to guide us in understanding the surrounding reality. But that does not mean that all of reality is written in the Torah, and that understanding it is a simplistic application of what we found in the Torah. There is importance to a deep grasp of reality, and only then to applying the scholarly tools and the Talmudic mode of relating. In many cases Haredi rabbis skip the first stage; and this stems from a correct perception of Torah as a binding mode of relating in all contexts, coupled with a mistake in how we ought to implement that.

Personally, I feel in every fiber of my being that I am a homo talmudicus—that is, one whose Talmudic analysis accompanies him in every thought and every decision on any subject. The ability to analyze, to separate different aspects, to put emotion in its proper place and engage the intellect in shaping a stance and making a decision; to balance moral considerations with halakhic considerations; logic with intuition and common sense; facts with norms—all this is a direct result of engagement with the Talmud. There is great contribution from other fields of knowledge, and all of them join into my “Talmudicity,” drawing from it and enriching it. The Talmud is what gives meaning to all the other fields and integrates them into a single, vast, complex, and wondrous whole.

The Talmud is a marvelous combination of psychology, legal reasoning, philosophy, understanding society and the human being, grasping situations, simplicity and the use of theoretical concepts—and the fusion of all these into a consolidated (non-systematic) structure by which and through which it is possible and proper to relate to everything in reality. The perspective one acquires there helps us understand various fields of knowledge, make distinctions within them, and understand the connections and differences between them. Moving between aspects and between Talmudic sugyot turns all this into a natural approach that flows in our veins.

A sense of connection

Beyond all this, in column 63 I used Rabbi Soloveitchik’s wonderful description of his childhood experience seeing his father sitting at the table with all the greats of the generations and debating with them. He waits in suspense to see who will “win.” He feels part of this process that has never ended. I described there at length how each of us who engages in Talmudic analysis sits at the table with all the sages of the generations and debates with them. I described how I argue with them, call them out when they speak nonsense, feel their pain, share in their deliberations, and ultimately shape an independent position that takes all I have seen into account. Decision-making is independent and autonomous—at least with respect to the reality in which I myself stand. Everything I have learned takes part in it; but the move from what I have learned to a decision is not a mechanical deduction. My whole self is invested in it. It is no wonder that my decision is not like my study-partner’s or anyone else’s. This is not a situation in which I learn what some thinker or some sage said in some area as a finished datum. I am there with him; I argue with him, learn from him, call him out, and internalize the product that is formed in this complex, self-driven process.

In conventional frontal learning, one transmits material, and the lecturer determines what the material is and its content, and transmits it to me. Such learning is akin to visiting a museum, where you are distant, maintain the dignity of the exhibits and their creators. Analytic Talmud study is participation in creating the exhibits. It is a workshop, in which you are one of the group, and therefore you naturally feel free to participate in the discussion, to argue with the participants, to call them out. It is a family quarrel that does not indicate disrespect, but engagement and a sense of partnership. I would not do this toward Abraham our father or Moses our teacher. They are part of the museum and transmit to me the word of God. I am not a partner in what transpires with them. In the Talmud, it is a workshop and not a lecture, and there I am fully a partner. This is yet another advantage of Talmud study over Bible study.

Back to the difficulties above

The topics the Talmud treats are, ostensibly, technical, esoteric halakhic details—not important. But from a Torah perspective, God is in the details. We are clarifying what He wants from us. Precisely the grand ideas in thought, in Kabbalah, in ethics, in biblical interpretation, and so on—those are the small things. These are products of human reflection, and each thinker builds them according to his understanding and conceptual scheme. This is not interpretation of Torah that was given to us at Sinai, but a collection of reflections that are not essentially different from any other philosophical thought. By contrast, halakhah and halakhic analysis are an ongoing interpretive process that interprets and refines what was given to us at Sinai, drawing out from it more and more insights, abstractions, generalizations—and also halakhic conclusions. In this sense, precisely the study of halakhah is the deeper connection to the Holy One, blessed be He, and not to human beings. I have often distinguished between Torah in the subject (Torah be-gavra) and Torah in the object (Torah be-chefza) (this is where it began), and I have even written that there is not necessarily a clear ranking of importance between them. It is a difference in kind, not necessarily in importance. Torah in the object is Torah in the objective sense: when you touch it, you are touching the word of God, and the human additions accumulated over the generations are nothing but interpretation of the divine word given at Sinai. That cannot be said of Torah in the subject. Its ideas and contents are, ostensibly, more foundational, but their connection to the Holy One, blessed be He, is far weaker.

In columns 379 – 381 I explained, on that basis, the meaning of the topics studied in the Talmud. We saw there that the author of the Tanya and R. Hayyim of Volozhin describe this very similarly. In their view, Torah study is connection to the divine will that finds expression in the details of halakhah. From their perspective, the subjects we study are not really the point. We are not coming to clarify the law of an ox or a donkey, a thief, or this or that food. All of reality is a medium through which the abstract divine will reaches us. Every generalization we make draws us from the earthly medium up to the Platonic layer of ideas in themselves. But without rooting this in earthly details, we have no way to truly touch it and understand it. Rubbing up against an ox that gores a cow, nat bar nat, the labor of me’amer, and the like—this is the only way for us to truly touch the divine will. It is expressed in them and through them. Abstract formulations of that will, not planted in earthly particulars, will be disconnected and meaningless. Therefore we embrace the King through His garments (in the language of the Tanya’s opening chapters) and not the King Himself. But there is no difference, for the garments are what enable us to embrace the King Himself.

Hence the importance of engaging in halakhic details is multilayered. First, to clarify what is incumbent upon us. But that is study as a means—an instrument of a mitzvah—not an end with intrinsic value (see column 479). Study, as an activity of intrinsic value, is about clarifying the divine will embodied in these details—connecting to it and instilling it within us. And subsequently, applying (yes, not simplistically) this instilled perspective across all areas of life. The Torah is not the laws of nat bar nat, but the mode of relating we acquired through engaging with the sugya of nat bar nat.

Rabbi Steinsaltz’s words

To conclude, I will copy here what Yoel Spitz wrote in the name of Rabbi Steinsaltz about the importance of studying the Talmud (as against the Bible).

He focuses on the form of discourse and the stance with which we approach that discourse, and on the face of it this is very similar to what I have written here. But on a second look you will see that although there is some affinity, we are dealing with something entirely different. I am not speaking about streamlining and enriching discourse between different people, but about the benefit to each of our thinking in and of itself.

Several times in the past (see, for example, at the end of column 482) I emphasized the importance and uniqueness of the Talmud and of its structure for the survival of the Torah and of the people of Israel. Had a canonical work been fixed that looked like the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch or Shemirat Shabbat Ke-hilchatah, the Torah would have shattered into fragments. The variety of situations, times, places, generations, and modes of thought that the people of Israel has contained throughout history could not have contained such a rigid text; it would have lost its meaning and disintegrated into shards of Torah that would take entirely different hues in different places, and shared discourse could not be maintained. Had it been a completely open text, or had there been no canonical text at all, again we would have fallen apart. Only a canon like the Talmud, which succeeds in containing and making room for all the shades and modes of thought, can provide a flexible framework that still stands and manages to contain all opinions, communities, and outlooks and to preserve the possibility of discourse and debate among them. This is the skeleton upon which the people of Israel is built, and consequently also the Torah that it bears across the generations. Here my words return and connect to Rabbi Steinsaltz’s words brought above.